Disclaimer: I own nothing but the general plot and OCs

Back to Subaru for a small chapter. This was really just a small introduction to the next section of the story, which will be her recovery, and what it brings.

Not too much happens, but that's because what happens next chapter kinda needs to be from someone's perspective who understands Japanese.

I have felt incredibly depressed before, not to the point where I tried to kill myself, but close. I did get better, and so this chapter was sort of like an older, Subaru version of what went through my head to get me from doing zombie and dead corpse impressions, to questioning my approach to life.

This is mostly filled with unedited internal ramble so good luck reading.

I know a lot of you wanted to know what's going through Subaru's head in reaction to Kakashi's emotional reaction. Here it is.

Thank you so much for all who reviewed, favourited and followed! Let me know what you like, or what doesn't work for you, or otherwise any prompts of scenes that you want to see!

I've been given one or two ideas which I'm up for giving a go and there's no preplanned plot at all really, since I'm trying to keep the me that's in Subaru as authentic as possible, by writing things as I react to them while putting myself in her shoes in the situation, without much warning. If that makes sense

Chapter 10 - Baby Steps

Everything happened too quickly to understand; one moment this body was falling through the air far too swiftly and yet far too slowly, with a thrillingly violent mixture of exhilaration and terror overwhelming my system. I just had enough time to wonder if this was worth it, or if I was wasting an entire life time of growth and living away.

Everything went dark and smothering and confusing. My breath left me in a rough wheeze, and the ribs creaked at the pressure, as I was jostled in one direction then another. My heart stopped for a moment, and then things were still. It took too-long seconds for my thoughts to straighten out, and assess what had just happened.

A loud but muffled voice reached my ears, and an increased pressure crushed the little air left in the lungs, as I emitted a high pitched noise. Suddenly light burst through the darkness, alongside the relief of fresh air.

DFB's face came into view as my eyes adjusted, and my heart dropped. He said something, sounding quietly distressed. There was someone nearby talking in an exuberant manner, but I was still being held too tightly to crane my head and see- I wouldn't even if I could, too tangled up in a toxic mixture of my anger and resentment at DFB for catching me, fear for the imminent consequences of my actions, dread at being forced to go forward and keeping living despite my wishes, at having what little control I had stripped from me, and deep hatred for myself at putting myself in the position I was in.

DFB and the other voice had a short conversation, with DFB sounding stilted and distant. The fear, dread, anger and self hatred swirled tighter and tighter in my chest as I waited for something to happen. The split second eye contact I made with DFB was too much- I didn't want to see whatever he was feeling reflected in his face when I was barely holding myself together.

I didn't want the guilt of his fear, or the pain of his indifference, whichever one it would be. More turbulent emotions on top of what was already shortening my breaths would be too much, and I closed my eyes and blocked out sound in order to minimise the overstimulation. I felt numb, and yet not. Like all the stress (and sadness and grief and heartache and rage and suffering and toomuchtoomuchtoomuch) was trapped on my side of the thick pane of glass that was the safety barrier and prison between me and the world (why did I do this to myself I did this how do I get out how do I feel good again). It tightened and tightened in my chest and stomach, and I knew any input from the outside world would set me off.

I couldn't stop my thoughts from spinning in increasingly small and frightened circles, but I carefully controlled my breathing, keeping my eyes shut tight, and trying to block out the horrific sinking dread that whispered of failure and being forced to watch the pain my actions wrought on others (unless there is none Unless he doesn't care about whether you live or die).

I didn't want to see. I wanted to die and not exist and not have to see the complicated, never enough, painful, mistake filled, judgemental reactions of other people when I was so tired of it. If I could just slip quietly between the fabric of reality into non existence I would do it. I wanted to escape. But there was nothing to escape from. Only myself. I had already performed the ultimate escape, into a new life, new body and new world, and it hadn't been enough. There was no further escape. I had already done it. This was all there is and it still wasn't enough. It never would be, and all that was left was a bone deep weariness and dread.

These thoughts choked my mind, round and round and round, as they had done for months, dragging me down further along the slope of my sanity, as I mourned who I had been before this ball and chain of anxiety and depression had anchored me.

But at least I had succeeded in blocking out the world around me, and slowing down my heart- I became aware of this, when I was pulled back to the present by DFB's hands changing grip on me, and as I heard the quiet rustle of the sheets and mattress underneath, I felt the body cradled in the gap of DFB's legs, and his hands wrap lightly around the torso. They trembled against the sensitive skin, and although that observation made a part of me sit up and take notice, made me see how strongly DFB had been shaken by my actions, I couldn't feel anything from it. I was not touched or moved by the signs of his affliction.

I was too caught up in my hollow dread, in my own suffering, to care about his.

And then DFB began to speak to me. This was not like his attempts of the last few days, filled with fake cheer, and lightness. He sounded undeniably anguished. With my name on his lips, and heartbroken accusation heavily lining his stuttered words, his desolation was filled with authentic emotion- and I realised I had inadvertently dug an unforgiving hook into his vulnerability, forcibly yanking it through all the defences and smoke screens of DFB's creation to the surface, to be laid bare before me.

Even with all of my physical weakness, and inability to talk or purposefully endear myself to DFB in any way, I had done this to him.

He lay curled around me, as I watched him through lowered lids, his pure grief and fear bare for me to see, his body heat sinking into me as he clutched me to him like I was all that held him to this world, his chest giving tiny heaves, with a small trail of tears falling down the side of his cheek to soak into his hairline.

And I felt nothing.

My emotions had reached a state of 'oh, that's new' as I looked at him stripped of every emotional defence he had, and moved no further than that. As though my feelings were a ladder, that I had complacently stayed on the bottom rung of for too long, and only now found as I attempted to climb to something more human and visceral, that the first three rungs were all I had left.

In a burst of momentary clarity, I saw that all my dread, and fear, and anger, dull as it all was, was for me and me only. I could not muster a single emotion for him.

This did not disturb me. But I knew it was wrong. This was wrong. This was not what I was about, not what I stood for, even at my most selfish. I was far from incapable of choosing to tear into someone's life time of emotional and mental barriers until they were in tears at my feet, but I did not do that accidentally to people.

And when faced with someone who was broken down to their base emotions until their vulnerable heart was exposed, I certainly didn't look upon it with apathy. That was the sort of gift I coaxed and cherished from somebody, feeling honoured to reciprocate.

I may have felt very little that was not about myself, as I watched DFB quietly break down, but intellectually, I knew that who I was in that moment was not me. I didn't want to be that person. She did not horrify me, or disgust me, but that wasn't who I had chosen to be since before I could remember.

I viewed this as a problem. And almost without fail, when presented with a problem, I needed to find a solution to it. So I did.

DFB would prevent me from killing myself to the best of his ability, which I had faith was pretty damn good. So another escape was off the tables for some time to come. I was unwilling to wait for however long it would take for him to remove his eye from the ball and let me try again, whilst continuously feeling as consistently tired, low and bored as I did now.

I took a mental breath, and hesitantly admitted to myself that killing myself was off the table entirely. Which meant I had to settle for the only other option; living. I would have to live.

I could live my life as I was doing it already; miserable, unhappy, and waiting for either death or some other unnamed thing to come along and pull me out of it. I was capable of doing it, certainly, but I envisioned the years stretching out in front of me; filled with endless grey-scaled mundanity, as I failed consistently to summon the motivation or passion to do anything other than eke out the barest minimum from myself, to create something that barely passed as a life without friends or loved ones or anyone I was remotely emotionally attached to, whilst never once taking the initiative in anything, or stopping to enjoy a single moment, drenched in loneliness and just passing the time till I died.

It was disconcertingly tempting, because it was a life in which I would be complacently on the easy path of not once ever having to try. I would never get hurt, because I would never expose myself to anyone, I would never fail because I would never take the risk. But I wasn't stupid enough to believe that living like that would affect no one but myself. Anyone who chose to attach themselves to me and believe I could be more, as DFB evidently did, would suffer alongside me quietly. I'd seen it before, I'd done it before, for far too long, and it was a pointless existence filled with pointless misery.

The other path was eminently more difficult, with a much greater chance of all those uncomfortable feelings people generally went out of their way to avoid, filled with trying and failing, and feeling rejected, and judged, and scared. But I knew that it was also filled with all the good things; each smile, joke, and moment of laughter, those outrageous actions with friends or family that had others shaking their heads or smiling too, the meeting of minds, and passionate debates, and the thrill of a fight, and the joy of dancing, the satisfaction of a gift well received or the happy tears from someone's unreasonable generosity, the quiet moments sharing warmth and safety with someone loved.

I couldn't remember what it was like to feel those things. Not enough to envision them in my future, but regardless, I allowed myself to want them again.

This wasn't my first ride with depression, and I knew it wasn't as easy as deciding I wanted to be better, then magically waking up the next morning feeling good because I wanted to. This moment of unusual clarity was going to slip away from me, and I was going to once more feel buried under the drudge of sad unwillingness to move or speak. But I also knew that for me, getting out of depression didn't start with feeling better, or less depressed. It didn't start with thinking more positive thoughts, or rationalising and reasoning and convincing myself.

I couldn't think myself out of depression. I had to act. It took moment by moment and action by action, over and over again, feeling shitty and horrible and like it was all fucking pointless, but doing it anyway- of reaching out to someone else.

And hey, there was a person right in front of me, who had just broken apart over me and was holding me conveniently close. I figured that since he had given me something that, if I could feel more I would be touched by, then I was obliged to make the effort to give something of myself in return.

A huge part of me was convinced that there was nothing I could give or do, because of the weak and useless body I was in, that had effectively isolated me for so long. Except I had the evidence to prove otherwise right in front of me. I considered, for a moment, that perhaps the reason I had been so weak and helpless was because I had believed I was.

A part of me was also convinced reaching out was a pointless endeavour, because DFB probably wouldn't know the first thing about helping someone out of depression, and would just emotionally retreat and let me down. But, I could convince myself of that about almost anyone if I tried, and I wouldn't know unless I gave a little faith to the man- on top of that, this wasn't like the first time I had floundered around depressed for years and completely clueless about what sort of mentality I needed, what help I needed, what to ask for, how to explain what I was going through. I wasn't really a child, and if I wanted to, I should have little problem getting DFB to effectively help, as long as he was willing.

Despite the thoughts rushing through me, I didn't feel hopeful, or inspired, or determined. I just took a deep, resigned breath, opened my eyes fully, and reached my hand up to DFB's face. I planted the irritatingly small hand over his wet cheek, and wiped the tear away.

He flinched, and his breath stuttered, as his gaze focussed on me. For a second he merely looked at me uncomprehendingly, before he registered where my hand was and his eye widened. There was not enough emotion within me for an expression to find its way onto my face, as I stared into his eye lazily. He looked back at me, bewildered.

"Subaru-chan?" He breathed hoarsely.

I realised he was waiting for something else from me and internally sighed. Now would probably be an appropriate time to say something. The problem was, this mouth had had next to no practice getting around Japanese words. And call me a perfectionist, but so far I had gotten this 'touching scene' stuff down pretty well- there was no way I was ruining it with incomprehensible baby babble.

But hey, laying down a foundation of trust and total honesty was the way to go about creating a support with someone, when coming out of depression. Especially because I was prone to lying when it suited me, which certainly wasn't the way to go about this. And I was possibly looking at the one person in this entire universe who would stick with me no matter what, thanks to his values toward abandoning family and friends (hopefully that still applied here). So start as you mean to go on, go big or go home, right?

Sure, whatever. It was a good thing I had a habit of muttering to myself under my breath when I was alone at day care, so this would come out correctly. I felt him inhale in shock, as I took in a breath and opened my mouth to speak.

"Good catch."

Well, it wasn't like I was going to say 'sorry' or 'I love you' because I wasn't and I didn't. I was too busy feeling depressed. Plus it wasn't like he understood my words, being in English. It was possible he thought what had come out my mouth was meaningless baby talk. But that wasn't the point. The point was that he was a genius, and he'd figure it out quickly. All of it. And if I wanted to get better I had to be ready to talk about it.

DFB's eye widened further, and his breath released in a quiet puff, as his eyebrow crinkled slightly in confusion. Nevertheless, I was fairly sure I had had some emotional impact on him. He said something quietly to me, in reply, but if he wanted a response from me he wasn't going to get it. I was drained, and done, and frankly I wanted to go to sleep in order to get some distance from having tried to kill myself before I thought too hard on it and a low but crippling shame kicked in.

Giving his cheek one light (probably slightly patronising) pat, I retreated the limb from his face, and for the first time in this life, tucked myself up against him in exhaustion.

A small shiver ran through him, and his breath hitched once more. He breathed something almost reverently, and wrapped his arms further around me.

His scent was a familiar comfort, and his surrounding warmth alongside the beat of his heart easily lulled me into unconsciousness.

I hadn't promised anything. There was no guarantee I wouldn't wake up and want to try to die all over again. But no matter how much of a backtrack my emotions or thoughts did, I couldn't take back that touch, and I couldn't take back those words. It was a start- a tiny step. I knew that the next step was all I could give for now.

English words will be underlined. I didn't put that at the top because I wanted it to be a surprise.

I know a fair few self insert stories with rebirth in them have the character essentially forget or move past their old life, and if they grieve things at the start, they eventually throw themselves into the new life and stop talking or thinking about their old life- changing and adapting.

I would certainly try to change and adapt if I was in a new life, but I wouldn't be able to move on and successfully push my old life to the back of my mind permanently. I could come to feel at peace about being in a new life, but my old one would be something I considered intrinsically a part of me. Thus, anyone I came to care about, love or trust on a personal level, I would feel the need to share that part of myself with them in the name of honesty.